


a thousand miles away from the day that we started

by goodnightmoon



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Whit has Malbec in his fridge, and im sad about alex retiring, barely edited i'm sorry, but i can still be sad about it, i love my sons, like he absolutely should retire, mentions of real family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightmoon/pseuds/goodnightmoon
Summary: Where Whit wishes it could be different.
Relationships: Alex Gordon/Whit Merrifield
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	a thousand miles away from the day that we started

Whit spends the last day with Alex as happy as he can be. Tries to be ignorant and blissful. But Alex can't stop touching him; constant hugs and pats on the back, playful wrestling, all constant reminders that this was going to be gone soon. It brews in Whit like a storm, and when they win, it bursts in him, this fact that he can never be with Alex. 

He had often lain awake over the years, in his apartments, in hotel beds on the road, thinking about a different future: he saw himself and Alex together somewhere in the plains of Nebraska, or maybe a mountain town in Colorado, or maybe a seaside place in the Carolinas; somewhere, anywhere, where it wasn’t a secret, but they were left alone. He dreamt about this even with Alex by his side in those hotel rooms, when Alex had snuck in to be with him in the middle of the night, or Whit had made some excuse to eat room service together and _then_ have sex. They always woke up alone.

Whit dreamed that would change. And now he's certain he’d never have another hotel night with him. No more glances in the clubhouse, no longing touches in the dugout, no more yelling for each other at a hit or a great play. No more waking up with a bittersweet taste in his mouth, memories of the night before still fresh in his mind. He knows it’s not goodbye forever, but it’s probably goodbye for a very long time, at least in person. In a regular off season, without the retirement and without the pandemic, they would see each other once or twice, maybe a whole week’s worth, in maybe November or January, and then only wait a few long weeks til spring training.

Not this time, huh?

Today makes pretending everything was different seem easy. Whit has his heart in his chest as he closes his locker for the final time this season, trying to avoid the emptiness of the locker--Alex's locker--next to him. Alex is saying a last farewell to everyone at the clubhouse door. Whit wants to be the last one to go, but he doesn't want to draw attention to himself. 

He's almost disappointed in their goodbye, how short and normal it is. If he wasn’t hyper aware of the need for secrecy, he would almost be offended; at the same time, he had built it up in his head for the past couple weeks, since Alex had officially announced he would be retiring. He's not sure what exactly he'd been expecting, just something bigger, something gentle, maybe, something that showed Whit that it had meant something to both of them. He listens to others talk about how they would've liked to celebrate Alex's retirement "properly." Whit almost rolls his eyes. _Me too,_ he thinks, _me fucking too._

In his car in the parking lot, he half expects Alex to run after him. After 15 minutes, though, he leaves, that same bittersweet flavor from the hotels heavy on his tongue. 

***

He's got nearly everything packed in his apartment, most of it in a moving truck already on its way home. He misses his family, misses the North Carolina air, the old batting cages. He’s not leaving for another few days, but he wants to just be able to get up, stuff the rest of his boxes in his trunk and his backseat like he's in the minors again, and get out of here.

His phone vibrates in his pocket with a text: _Hey, man, sorry we didn’t get to talk earlier_. 

It’s Alex. 

_It’s alright_ , Whit responds, maybe a bit too quick. _Knew you were busy._

_Are you home?_

His heart thuds a little harder.

_Sure am_. 

_I’m on my way_ , and then, _if that’s okay._

_Of course_ , he replies. _Come on over._

He looks around his apartment. It’s bare, but still a mess, with boxes stacked and lining the walls of the living room. In his fridge is a half empty bottle of red, a couple cans of some light stuff, and some Chinese takeout. He stands in the refrigerator light, wondering if he has time to get delivery, or maybe run to the convenience store for something to whip up, or if he can somehow make ice cream in the freezer and a couple glasses of Malbec work. 

He starts to clean up, setting the boxes in sturdy rows, making the place look as comfortable and inviting as possible, fluffing pillows and cushions. 

Then Alex is at his front door. 

“They’re waiting for me in Omaha,” he says, when Whit opens the door. 

Whit can see them in his mind, his wife Jamie and their boys, maybe Alex’s parents, too. Waiting for him to come home, and stay home this time. 

“But I couldn’t leave without--" he stops, licks his lips-- “I don’t know. I guess I just needed to see you again.” Whit will take any excuse Alex thinks he needs to give. 

“Come in,” he says, opening the door wider. “I didn’t know if you might wanna eat anything. I don’t have much, so it would have to be delivery.”

“Thanks, but I’m not too hungry.” He throws his backpack on the ground, the corner next to the door. 

“Something to drink? I've got--" 

"Whit." 

He's almost annoyed at the interruption. "What?" 

Alex kisses him, then, closing the space between them with a tug on Whit's arm, wrapping around him so that they're flush together. The kiss is deep and comforting and Whit will miss this, he will miss this feeling, this warmth. He has had other partners, but this has always been different. 

They come apart, still in each other's arms, Whit gripping at Alex's jacket so that it folds in his hands, a subtle yet strong show of yearning, aching for more. 

"I wish I could stay," Alex says quietly, so close that Whit can feel his breath on his ear. 

Whit knows this deep down, that he can't stay, no matter what they both feel in this moment-- _they're out there, we're in here_ \--he knows five minutes would turn into ten would turn into thirty, and Alex doesn't have that freedom. Really, neither of them do. 

"I know," he says. He rests his face in the crook of Alex's neck, breathes with him. "I know." 

Alex's big hand comes to rest on the back of Whit's head, curling his fingers in with his hair. "It's gonna be okay." He gently pushes them apart, and Whit gently loosens his grip, lets his hand drop. "This isn't forever." 

Anything Whit is thinking, if said out loud, will make him sound childish. "I know," he says, again. 

Pressing a kiss to Whit's forehead, Alex lets go of him. "I'll text you when I land," he tells him, stepping away, grabbing down at his bag. His tone is quiet and light, like a tiptoe; Whit can't match it, though he tries. 

"Great." It comes out in a whisper. "I'll see--I'll talk to you later, then." 

Alex has on a small smile, huffs a laugh, opens the front door. Whit needs him to stay, needs him to leave if he's going to, god, can he ever get a break? He can feel his throat welling up, swollen at the top, so that anything he says would come out choked, can feel his face getting hot, his neck begin to ache. 

"Whit," Alex says, hand resting on the outside doorknob. 

There is a pause, a monumental tension that hangs in the air. "Have a good flight," Whit gets out, wiping at his eye, pretending it's an itch that needs scratching. 

"I'll miss you." 

They've skirted around this, the whole time. For Whit, it was because he wanted to avoid the finality; he wasn't sure why Alex hadn't said it up til now, but he assumed it was the same reason. Now the finality is finally being embraced. 

"Miss you." Then Whit closes the door. He can't stop thinking about pulling him back in, just keeping him in his arms, screw Omaha, but he rests his back against the door, eyes closed, focusing on his breathing. 

Later, he's having cold takeout and a glass of red wine for dinner, using one of his boxes as a table, when he gets a text. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while!! love to be back writing again though. i love both these boys and they're such [good](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFhnWtThLvx/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) [friends](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFnne_yA-eO/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) and I am very much going to miss him :((((( will have to settle for a statue :)
> 
> anyway, i've been thinking about writing something for them for a long time and am glad to have finally gotten it from my mind to the keyboard. didn't really feel like writing pwp but maybe some day
> 
> title is from still by niall horan


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